Fearless
by SparkleHorse
Summary: Carly tries to get Sam to admit her feelings.


It's Monday afternoon. She's laying beside me on the bed while we wait for Freddie, twirling her fingers in her blond curls. She's on her back, studying the wall, I guess. I'm on my side, facing her, studying the sharp angle of her nose, wondering what's going on in her head, wondering if she sees the gauzy sunlight falling on the far wall the same way I do.

We're as close as two people can be, but I want to get closer. I want inside her head, because you can never really know what's in another person's mind. I'm pretty sure she wants me as much as I want her; she's shown no interest in boys for months now, and I catch her watching me in the dark some nights when she thinks I'm too focused on Girly Cow to notice her sidelong glances. I've noticed a sadness and reserve about her for a while now, too - fearless Sam who never backs down, who will fight anyone, who is afraid of nothing, but something is hiding under her mask of snark and nonchalance, something that bubbles to the surface sometimes when she thinks I don't see her watching me from across the room.

She's laying beside me with her eyes half shut, breathing in sunshine through barely parted lips. Her breath stirs the specks of dust that hang in the golden air above. I could lean over right now and kiss her, and end this torture for her both, but it's important to me that she be the first to speak of this desire. I'll do whatever I can to bring that out of her, to let her know the feelings are okay, to drive away whatever lingering fear keeps her from speaking of it.

And besides, what if I'm wrong? If we can't get any closer, then I just want to keep her close.

"What will we do, Sam?"

"About what, Carly girl?"

I sigh deeply. "We graduate in a few months."

"Not this again." She turns toward me. "Just because we're going to different colleges doesn't mean we're gonna drift apart. We'll still both be in Seattle. Nothing will change." Her eyes soften, and I see that thing inside her bubbling up again, that thing she can't contain. "I'm not going to let you drift away," she promises.

I smile at her. Just then, we hear Freddie calling from downstairs.

Our iCarly meeting is productive; we come up with some good ideas for the next show, and afterward we go downstairs to eat. Spencer brought home an extra-large bucket of chicken fries from the restaurant down the street, and Sam wraps her chicken fries in slices of ham. I can't help but laugh at the way she torments Freddie by spitting strawfuls of Peppy Cola at him.

After we eat we sit on the couch and watch reruns of old shows. Freddie goes home around 8, and Sam and I sit in silence for another hour or so until her mom texts her.

Sam slips her phone back in her pocket. "Can you drive me home?" she asks.

"Sure," I say. I raise my voice. "Spencer, I'm taking Sam home!"

"Okay," he yells back from his room. "Be home before midnight!"

I laugh and look at Sam. "I guess that means we can take the long way."

We walk down to the parking lot and hop in the pre-owned Camry I got for my 17th birthday.

"Did you really want to take the long way?" Sam asks, buckling her seatbelt.

"We can," I say. It's 10 minutes to her house if I get on the freeway, 30 minutes if I take the back roads. I drive us out onto the dark, rain-slick streets, let some Portishead thump on the CD player while Sam rolls her window down. Her long blond curls fly in the still-misty air.

I drive us down the long stretch of Federal Road, passing all the side roads that branch off into neighborhoods full of single story homes. TVs glow purple through the windows of those houses. Street lights angle over us in a silvery flash every fifty yards, and sweet Sam yells over the wind about how she hates school, hates her job, is actually looking forward to going to the local community college next semester.

Does she know how happy she makes me? Does she know, as we drive up Woodland Hill, overlooking the industrial district, that she makes those distant lights brighter to me? Does she know that just because she is with me the drive seems magical and the night feels infinite?

I pull up to her house. A bare, sickly light bulb buzzes on her screened-in front porch.

In the dim light of the car I can see that softness in her eyes again. She looks like she wants to say something. I wait. Perhaps I keep my expression too blank, because finally she sighs and says, "See you in the morning."

"Okay," I say softly, biting my lower lip. "Do you want to walk to school in the morning?"

She smiles. "Yeah, walking would be nice." Then she is gone, her sneakers trekking up the porch steps, her backpack slung over her shoulder. She turns and waves once, then lets the screen door slam shut behind her.

I get back on the main drag and take the short way home, through a landscape of fast food joints, brightly lit gas stations and video rental stores. I miss Sam already, but then a Marvin Gaye song I've never heard before comes on the radio, and I crank it up. And there's that feeling that can keep you awake all night, that unbearable happiness that stays with you for hours as you stay up late listening to music in your bedroom, and every song seems sweeter and timeless and all the lyrics seem like they were written especially for you.

* * *

It was a typical school day, nothing especially poignant. But Sam has been working on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, so I'm alone tonight. I help Spencer make spaghetti tacos for dinner, then go up to my room and finish my homework in between long bouts of staring out the window. I don't have any hobbies or any real activities besides iCarly, so after finishing my homework I wander downstairs, sit on the couch and flip through the TV channels, and read fan fics on my laptop. The fan fics are interesting - they get me to thinking about things.

I'm still expecting Sam to call me when I change clothes and climb into bed. She always calls me after work, but I never know how early or how late. I'm used to her waking me up in the middle of the night, and it worries me sometimes - I don't know what she's doing in those hours after work, who she's hanging out with, what kind of trouble she might be getting into.

I'm almost asleep around midnight, in that place where I'm still awake but the images in my head are taking on a life of their own, when my phone starts buzzing. I answer it.

"What's up, Carly girl?" she says.

"Hey, Sam. How goes it?"

"Typical crappy night at work. I just don't have the temperament to deal with customers."

I laugh. I'm laying in the dark, looking at the curves of silvery light that have managed to sneak in through my window blinds and plaster themselves to my wall. The phone filters out the frequencies in Sam's voice, making her sound far away. In this city full of late night conversations, we're but two of a million voices flying through the air.

"What did you do tonight?" she asks.

"Oh, hung out at the loft, read a bunch of fan fics," I mention casually.

"Fan fics? I didn't know you were into that."

"A lot of them are really well written," I say.

"Hmm."

"I like the ones for _Cal and Simon_."

"What?" I can hear her scoff over the phone. "That show sucks."

"Well, I like the fandom more than the show itself," I say. "It's... interesting how people pick up on little things in that show."

"Yeah, right. I bet it's just a bunch of teenage girls arguing over whether that girl Kelly ends up with Cal or with Simon."

I bite my lower lip. "Actually, I like the stories where Cal and Simon end up together."

Silence on the other end for a long moment. "They have those?" she finally asks.

"Mm hmm." I swallow hard. "It's like, underneath all the corny jokes, there's a lot of... poignancy, I guess, to the boys' friendship. You know, the story of how they met, and how the depth of their friendship is portrayed. I can see why the fan fic writers feel like they have a lot of raw material from the cannon to work with."

"Huh," she says simply.

I rush on. "And I don't know if the producers do it on purpose, but there does seem to be a lot of little clues and stuff they do on the show to make you think, maybe Cal and Simon could be more than friends. Subtext, you know... that's what they call it."

"Why would the producers put gay subtexts in their show?"

I laugh, and I know it sounds forced or nervous. "Well, it's a Dingo channel show. There's no way they could come right out and address the issue of gay teens, but the fan fic writers can pick up on those little clues and explore that kind of stuff in a straight forward way, you know?"

"Yeah," she says softly.

"I guess it's like real life. If two people felt that way about each other, you know? They probably couldn't just come right out and say it. There's too many rules society puts in place. Then, too, maybe they wouldn't know for sure if they other person was sending them signals or not."

Oh God, I'm shaking and shivering now, even though it's warm in my room. I pull the blanket tighter around me and wait for Sam to say something, but she stays silent on the other end.

"Maybe, if they didn't know, they would just have to take that leap of faith," I say, trying to keep the shakiness out of my voice.

"Yeah," she says, softer than before.

"The stories are really good at capturing that uncertainty," I say. Sam just breathes on the other end of the phone. I keep going, even though I know I should shut up. "I think the stories are realistic, for the most part. Even in the ones where Cal and Simon have a relationship, they have to keep it a secret." I swallow hard again. "That's probably how it would be in real life if two people had that relationship, don't you think? That they'd have to keep it secret?"

"Yeah," she finally agrees with me. "They'd probably have to keep it secret."

A few minutes of silence pass by.

"What are you doing?" she finally asks.

"Just laying here. Wishing you were here."

"Aww," she says, but I detect that characteristic edge of sarcasm. It's not that she's making fun of me or anything; that's just the way she deals with sincerity. "You can see me in the morning. Stop by on your way to school."

"Drive or walk?"

"Mmm. Let's walk."

"I like walking." I can't stop myself from smiling.

I can hear her chuckle under her breath. "Alright. Goodnight, Carly."

"Night, Sam."

* * *

She says nothing to me about fan fics at school that day.

On Wednesday evening, after iCarly rehearsal, I decide to be more aggressive. We're sitting on our bean bags up in the studio, drinking Peppy Colas and chatting with Freddie. I'm studying her legs. I love it when Sam wears skater shorts that show off her lovely legs. Mine are pale sticks, but her legs are strong like a dancer's.

"Well guys, I gotta go get started on that report," Freddie says, closing down his laptop.

"Later, dork," Sam says. Freddie rolls his eyes.

I laugh. "Bye, Freddie."

I wait until his footsteps fade out in the stairway, then turn to Sam.

"Do you ever wonder if Freddie is circumcised?"

Sam does a spit take with her Peppy Cola. "What?! No! Why on earth would I ever think about Freddie's junk? What?"

I laugh at her. "It's just that the whole concept is weird."

"I'm sure Freddie's junk _is_ weird."

"No, I mean that they cut off part of... a guy's thing."

Sam snorts. "Why are we having this conversation?"

"I just don't see how that could possibly be comfortable for a guy; to have his most sensitive bit out in the open all the time. Imagine if you didn't have... you know, a hood?"

I've never seen Sam blush so red. She looks like she's trying to retreat into herself. She pulls her sweatshirt tighter around her body. "Yeah," she says. "I guess if my button was out in the open all the time, rubbing on my underwear, I just wouldn't be able to function."

I laugh out loud. "Oh my god, Sam, did you just call it your clit your 'button?'"

"Shut up," she says, trying not to giggle.

"Do you push your button?" I tease.

"More like, rub it in a circular motion."

That's so hot to imagine her doing that, but I only laugh louder.

"What about you?" she asks quietly, looking away.

There is a quick, jerking feeling inside of me, like some organ or other suddenly dropped away, and a sudden rush of encouragement that she just asked me such a question.

I sigh and stop laughing. "I guess I like to move the hood up and down around it."

She shakes her head, her blond curls shifting over her shoulders. "This is the most awkward conversation ever."

"The awkwardest."

She looks back at me now, her blue eyes guarded, her eyebrows twisted. "I'm not used to Carly Shay talking about sexy things. Why the sudden interest in your best friends'... organs, and techniques and such?"

I sink lower into my bean bag and let my shoulders drop. I let every muscle in my body relax. "I guess I just need to get over all the embarrassment about that sort of stuff if I'm going to write my own Cal and Simon fan fic. Or, 'Sal,' as that particular ship is called."

She groans. Her finger is tracing circles around the lip of her cola can. "You're still on about that? You want to write gay porn about fictional TV characters? Sounds like a waste of time."

"It's not porn," I insist. "Well, most of the stories, aren't. Probably 90% of them aren't. I mean, most of them are about the boys' emotional confusion, and how they get around that, and then they're mostly climaxed with a simple kiss."

"That sounds like an even bigger waste of time." She's trying to be sarcastic, but her voice it too soft.

"It's not."

I see movement in her throat as she swallows hard. She's looking at her shoes. "Why are you so interested in that stuff?"

"I guess because there are just so many rules for what they can show on TV, and for how people can relate to each other in real life." I lean forward and try to catch her eye, but she turns away to look at the door to the iCarly studio. "And I guess writing those stories lets people get around all those rules. It lets them say what they really feel."

She won't look at me. The silence goes on too long, and I know I can't budge her. I sink back into my bean bag.

I must've fallen asleep, because I wake up a little while later and Sam is gone. I reach for my phone and text her.

_Where r u?_

_Almost home_, she answers quickly.

_Walk 2 skool tomorrow?_

_Mom driving me on way to dr_, she writes back a few minutes later. I try to ignore the feeling of something small and sharp suddenly stabbing me inside. I text her again.

_Spend the nite w/me after icarly Friday?_

_Of course_

_Just u and me_

:)

I should be happy with this, but I can't stop my fingers from punching out one more message.

_I don't want us to drift apart_

My heart thuds as I wait for her to type back. I'm almost too sick to read the message when my phone buzzes again.

_Drift apart? UR the only thing in my life_

Now I can't stop the tears that are clouding my eyes and spilling out.

_I love you_, I write back.

She doesn't answer.

* * *

She's not in school Thursday.

I send her several texts throughout the morning, asking if she's okay, but she doesn't respond. I try to call her at lunch, but I get her voicemail message. I give up in the afternoon and text her one final message: _Please call me after work_.

There is a sick, twisted feeling inside the rest of the day, like I'm nauseous, and like I drank too much coffee. I can't pay attention to the lesson in English class about transitive verbs; I hear something about 1066 in History class; I don't even remember what I say to Freddie in between classes.

I keep seeing the image of Sam looking away, refusing to meet my eyes. Was she nervous? Disgusted? Did I make myself too obvious with all my talk about the fan fics? Did I go too far with the sex talk? Did I read her all wrong?

You can't ever know another person completely, not even your best friend of nine years. As much as I know Sam's favorite foods and favorite movies, as much as I can predict her reactions to people she doesn't like, I really don't know what is going on in her head about this current thing - this _us_ situation. I don't know if she is hurt, angry, sad, conflicted, or what. And you can try to manipulate a situation to get a reaction out of someone, but messing with a person's mind is always risky and unpredictable - it doesn't have the same clean precision of an algebra equation. There are always too many variables and unknown factors at work.

* * *

Somehow I manage to get through the evening. I eat slightly burned rotisserie chicken for dinner with Spencer and Freddie without either of them noticing my inner turmoil. I mechanically finish some homework up in my room, then plop on the couch and let my mind shut off as I watch hours of _Cal and Simon _reruns I've already seen a million times.

At 9 o'clock my phone buzzes. I check the message. It's from her.

_Did you mean it?_

_All of it_, I type back.

She doesn't respond. She gets off work in about an hour, so I wait.

11 o'clock rolls around and I go to my room to get ready for bed and wait for her to call, but she doesn't. I change clothes, lay in bed with a book, and wait. I read ten pages without remembering anything that happened. Still no phone call.

I turn off my lamp, lay in the darkness, and wait. I keep picking my phone up from the night stand to check the time. I finally fall asleep a little after midnight.

Something wakes me - a noise or something downstairs. I check my phone and it's after 2. I rub my eyes and stretch, really feeling the tension in my shoulders. The silvery city light floats in through my window blinds and hangs on the shadows.

My bedroom door opens. Even in the dim light I can immediately make out the mass of blond hair and the cut-off cargo pants.

"Sam," I whisper.

She stumbles forward across my room, shrugging out of her vest and leaving it on the floor. She collapses face first alongside me on the bed.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I had to come see you," she slurs. Her breath reaches me.

"Yeah? Have you been drinking gasoline?"

"Vodka," she replies, muffled somewhat by the pillow. She lifts her head. "Dude from work bought it for me," she says, anticipating my next question.

I roll to my side and lay my hand on her back. "Why?"

"I wanted to tell you..." She rolls a little to her side, opens her eyes. Her hand seeks my face, and cold fingers rest on my cheek. "I wanted to tell you something."

I take a deep breath to slow the sudden quickening of my heart. "Yeah?"

"Mm hmm," she nods, closing her eyes again and letting her head fall onto the pillow.

"What did you want to tell me?"

"I wanted to tell you that I love you, too."

I brush a stray curl of hair out of her eyes. "You had to get drunk just to tell me that?"

She scootches her body closer to mine until her face is against my shoulder. Her hand rests on my hip. "I love you."

"More than a friend?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Yes."

And her lips are on my shoulder, then moving down my arm, then across my chest, repeating "I love you," between the trail of kisses she is leaving on my body. Her hand slips down the outside of my thigh, then works its way along the sensitive skin inside. I can barely breath. A rush of warmth floods my stomach, and lower down I feel the first moisture beginning. Her hand slides upward over my panties and in a rush she works her fingers under the waistband.

I gasp as she finds my most sensitive part. She grasps it in her fingertips like a pencil, working the hood up and around the tender flesh.

"Sam," I moan. I bury my hands in her hair and press her head to my chest. I can't stop the shudders wracking my body as she whispers "I love you" into my skin.

Her drunk fingers are clumsy and not especially gentle, but a buzzing wave of energy and pleasure zips along my body's nervous pathways like a loose spark of electricity. Her mouth moves up from my chest to my neck, then finds my mouth, but her lips are cold and all I can taste or smell is the sharp reek of alcohol.

I break my mouth from hers. "Sam, stop."

Her fingers pause and she draws her head back. I can barely make out the blue of her eyes and the tears that are blurring them.

"I'd rather kiss you when you're not drunk," I explain. "I want to taste Sam, not the vodka."

She kind of laughs, smiles at me, and lays her head down on my shoulder. Her hand moves out of my panties and rests on my waist. I hug her to me tightly.

"I'm sorry, Carly girl," she says after a minute.

"Me, too, Sammy."

Her fingers find my hair and play softly in it. "So can I stay here tonight?"

I laugh. "Yes, you can stay here tonight. As long as you keep your promise to stay here tomorrow night."

"Hell yeah."

"I want you to do all this again tomorrow night without your liquid courage."

"Hell yeah."

I laugh again, but it's not easy with her weight laying against my body. I just hold her for a while and let the up and down of my breathing sync with hers. Her fingers are still playing in my hair, but soon I notice them slowing down, then stop, and I'm pretty sure she is asleep. Her body feels so warm and compact and strangely fragile against mine.

I look up at my ceiling and study the slats of city light painted on the darkness. I hope that Sam will still love me in the morning, but there is always the chance that she could wake up and not remember anything from tonight, or try to play it off like she forgot.

Or I could just take that leap of faith and believe in her, and believe that everything will work out right.


End file.
